


fundamentally meaningless showmanship

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David doesn’t forget about Lourdes’ promise to see him in February, the slightly far off chance to exact some sort of righting of the scales, but what he forgot, as well as Lourdes, apparently, is that All-Star weekend falls in January.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fundamentally meaningless showmanship

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Clo.
> 
> This timeline precedes _no expectation of returns_ by a year. That will be relevant.

David doesn’t forget about Lourdes’ promise to see him in February, the slightly far off chance to exact some sort of righting of the scales, but what he forgot, as well as Lourdes, apparently, is that All-Star weekend falls in January. 

David, second in the rookie points race, gets invited for the rookie game, and would never even consider turning it down. Lourdes, who’s still first, inevitably gets invited as well. It’s in Pittsburgh, and the Penguins have two decent enough rookies this year that they give the teams to them, a forward and a D-man, a jokey little in-fight that the local reporters, those not lucky enough to cover the real all-stars, are making a cute little narrative out of, from what David can gather. The arm wrestle for first pick definitely works in their favour for that, getting a titter from the journalists, and pulls a reluctant smile out of David. There’s a lot less fanfare to this than the actual all-star picks, just the local media and TSN and Sportsnet filming some filler stuff, and David feels uncomfortably like he’s getting picked in gym class, except he was always picked first, and this time he’s pretty sure he won’t be.

He isn’t; Samuelsson, who’d taken Petersen down in the arm-wrestling match, goes with Lourdes, which is no surprise to anyone, least of all David, though Lourdes makes this mock-humble shocked face that raises David’s hackles just a little more. David contents himself to being second, at least, and maybe beating Lourdes that way, even in a contest that fundamentally means nothing. Except when Petersen goes, instead of going with David, he picks Markson, who, from David’s cursory research once the picks came out, is middle of the pack maybe, and not even a proper rookie, having spent his first season still knocking around in the minors. From the shoulder slapping bro hug that goes on, David gathers he went with friendship over strategy, and even if the game’s pointless, even if it means nothing, that’s still _stupid_. 

The only hope he has, then, is to get overlooked again, for Samuelsson to go for goaltending or D next, but Samuelsson’s picking smart, unfortunately, and he snaps David up, giving Petersen a triumphant look as he does so, and David goes up to the front, jaw tight, tighter when Lourdes slaps him on the back. 

“We got this easy, huh, Chapman?” Lourdes says, and very aware of the cameras on him, David doesn’t shrug his hand away, just says, “Sure,” and keeps his eyes forward.

There’s a loose little practice after the picks, not even that, just everyone strapping on their skates and grabbing a stick, both teams on the ice, though you’d never know there were two judging from the way they’re mixed up, guys from the same teams, now or in Juniors, nothing holding the current teams together other than a stupid, theatrical arm-wrestling match’s result.

David at least tries to do something with it, even if no one else seems interested, more excited about their weekend off and partying than actually playing some hockey. Lourdes is no exception, leaning against the boards at centre-ice and talking to Markson and Petersen, whom David would like to point out aren’t even on their _team_ , and when David skates past them, wonders if the opposing goalie cares so little that he’ll let David practice getting a few shots off him (the fact he’s currently sitting sideways in his net gives David some hope), give him something to work from tomorrow, Lourdes gestures him over.

David stops reluctantly.

“This is Gabe,” he says, then, apparently not dissuaded by David’s best ‘and I give a shit why?’ look, “we played together on the Knights. Petersen’s his little lady.”

Petersen gives Lourdes the finger without taking his hands off his stick. 

“Okay,” David says slowly.

“Gabe’s awesome,” Lourdes says, and slings an arm around Markson’s shoulder. “You better look out for him tomorrow. We’re going to go out tonight before we’re enemies, though, if you want to come.”

Markson rolls his eyes, grinning at David like he’s sharing a joke.

“Right,” David says. “No, because I actually want to play well tomorrow. Maybe it’s different for guys who are only rookies because they weren’t good enough to play the year they were drafted.”

Markson’s smile drops, as does Petersen’s, and probably Lourdes’, not that David’s looking. David feels dimly guilty, because Markson’s never done shit to him. He doesn’t apologize though, bites his tongue and skates to the end of the rink, figures he’ll apologize to Markson tomorrow when he presumably doesn’t have Lourdes hanging off him, plastered to him like a second skin. 

After practice and a few more minor media things, everyone heads back to the hotel. There’s a catered dinner, but most of the guys skip it, finding their own places with something a little less like the hotel food they eat all the time, though David’s not inclined to bother, since it’s just started snowing and he hasn’t packed proper boots.

Heading back to his room, he passes Lourdes in the hall, talking to yet another guy who won’t be on their team tomorrow, saying something about enjoying the Pittsburgh nightlife, whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean. David has no idea how Lourdes thinks he’s going to avoid being carded, because he’s big, but he’s still got more of a baby face than practically anyone, looks all of the just barely nineteen that he is. Maybe Petersen’s got an in somewhere in Pittsburgh, though, some bar that cares more about the Penguins than it does the law, or just doesn’t particularly care about the law in the first place.

There’s plenty of drinking going on in the hotel rooms anyway, David quickly finds out, must be a rookie who wheedled their all-star teammate into a booze run, or maybe the Pens bequeathed Samuelsson with a cache, David doesn’t know, because he’s not particularly interested in drinking with a bunch of guys he barely knows, who he’s going to be playing, tomorrow or in the future, has less than no interest in playing hungover. He’s been given a roommate, they all have, but his roommate, Bruyere, a Quebecois kid, makes polite conversation with David in French and then wanders off to go get plastered. Good thing he’s on the other team, he can drink himself sick, for all David cares, unless he wakes David up with it.

David’s asleep fairly early, drifting off to The Daily Show, and when he wakes up to a burst of laughter, the TV’s off, his roommate’s snoring in the next bed, and the digital clock beside his bed reads 2:23.

David groans and rolls over, but there’s someone exaggeratedly shushing right outside his door, so he gets up, finding a hoodie on top of his duffle and zipping it up over his bare chest before he goes to the door. He opens it to find Lourdes, Markson and Petersen in a huddle.

“How are you this much of a lightweight?” Markson asks, just loud enough to make David positive that he’s not sober either, and Lourdes says something too low for David to hear, to which Petersen responds, exasperated sounding, “we’re not even staying here tonight, I _live_ here, so find your keycard so we can go _home_.”

David must shift or something, because Petersen looks up, eyes narrowing slightly, presumably when he recognizes David. “Hey asshole,” he says. “Come and help or go to bed, no one needs any more of your superior bullshit.”

David flinches, the guilt returning abruptly, and that must be why he ends up grabbing his keycard from his jeans and shoving his feet, sockless, into his sneakers, then going out into the hall. 

“Hold him up or check his pockets,” Petersen says when David comes over. “Your pick.”

David ends up taking Markson’s place, Lourdes’ arm heavy around his shoulders, a crushing weight against David’s side, and he looks at David, blearily smiling.

“Chapman,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Shut up, Lourdes,” Petersen says under his breath, and David likes him more, suddenly.

Markson makes a triumphant sound, his hand in Lourdes’ back pocket, and pulls out a keycard, which he uses to open the door, keeping it ajar while David and Petersen struggle to move over two-hundred pounds of unyielding weight.

They take him to the nearest bed and no further, silently communicate a drop, and David feels grimly pleased when Lourdes groans upon landing. It’s almost pitch-dark, the only light from the still open door, and so it’s almost easy to look at the shadow that’s Markson and say, “Sorry about today.”

“Whatever,” Markson says. “We’re heading out, and Jake technically shares this room with me, so if you find him aspirin and a glass of water we’re cool.”

They do head out, Markson pressing the keycard into David’s hand, and David goes back to his room, rifling through his duffel as silently as possible until he finds some painkillers, grabbing a bottle of water he’d already put into the mini-fridge, and heading to Lourdes’ room, where he’s passed out, fully dressed, where David and Petersen left him.

David puts the water and the meds on the bedside table, along with the keycard, and considers doing only as much as Markson asked from him, leaving Lourdes there to suffer in the morning, but they’re on the same team, at least tomorrow, and David doesn’t like to lose, would never willingly sabotage his chances, so he shoves at Lourdes’ shoulder until he responds with a groan.

“Get up, Lourdes,” David says, “You’re still in your fucking coat.”

Lourdes groans again, but with some more strategic shoving, he half sits up. “Chapman?” he says, squinting up at David in the dim light.

“Get undressed,” David says. “Drink this water. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Lourdes struggles with the zipper of his coat, which David isn’t particularly inclined to help him with, considering he’s the idiot who got plastered before a game, symbolic or not. He has less trouble with his shirt, and David looks away when he’s reaching for the zip of his jeans.

“Well, good,” David says, awkwardly. “Drink that water.” Doesn’t wait around to see if Lourdes has actually managed his jeans, just heads back to his room, Bruyere still snoring away, and wraps himself in his blankets, tries to sleep, though between the dim rage at being awoken and Bruyere’s chainsaw, it’s almost impossible. 

He does eventually, must, because when he wakes up the incessant noise is Bruyere’s electric toothbrush. He’s groggy at breakfast, doesn’t feel good after a night of interrupted sleep, big surprise, though at least Lourdes looks worse, red eyes and a slump to his wide shoulders.

He seems to come back fine, though, skates up to David at warm-up, towering over David where he’s on his knees, stretching. 

“What?” David says, hates that he’s practically got a crick in his neck, trying to meet his eye.

“Marksy said you helped out last night,” Lourdes says. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” David says. Figures he wouldn’t remember, with how drunk he was. It’d serve him fucking right if he was too sick to play, but he seems okay.

Better than okay, it turns out. He’s on David’s wing on the first line, seems to have a sense of where David’s going to end up, sending passes that connect firm, stay grounded, the best kind of set-up David could get. The score’s ridiculous, like it always is during all-stars, 10-8, but it’s in their favour, and David’s got two goals, both with Lourdes assisting, and Lourdes has one of his own. They’re on the ice when the time ticks down, and Lourdes crashes into him, practically bowls him over, forehead knocking against David’s helmet.

“Not bad, Chapman,” he shouts, and David, always happy to win, can’t help but give him a thin smile.

The adrenaline doesn’t last though; the win doesn’t mean anything except maybe to some bets the Penguins had going on Samuelsson vs. Peterssen, there are no points, no medals, no cups. No one gives a shit, not really, and Lourdes was a teammate for about five seconds, but now he isn’t, and that’s what matters.

So when Lourdes comes over in the dressing room after the game, towel slung low on his hips and hair sticking damply to his forehead, saying, “Good game, bud,” David just looks up at him, flat, says, “I’m not your friend, _bud_ ,” and then ducks his head, keeps it down until Lourdes goes away.


End file.
